


Fallout prompts

by kimbureh



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22541671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbureh/pseuds/kimbureh
Summary: A collection of prompts, so far all of them sfw, not all of them are shippy. I do what I want. Have fun and shoot me prompts at my tumblr (same name), two characters and three words. I usually add several chapters here at once.
Relationships: Cait/Curie (Fallout), Curie/Sturges (Fallout), Curie/X6-88, Danse & Codsworth, Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready, John Hancock/X6-88, Old Longfellow/Daisy, Paladin Danse/Preston Garvey, Piper Wright & Preston Garvey, Preston Garvey/Male Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	1. X6-88/Curie, short and sweet kiss

X6-88 sits at a table in the dim light of a flickering oil lamp, tending to his laser rifle with more diligence than ever. The wretched surface world offers meager supply of spare parts, the Institute and its technologies… gone.

That Miss Nanny who turned synth is watching him from the other table where she pretends to read and miserably fails. She might be smart by surface world standards, but in reality, she’s mediocre like the rest of them.  
The sound of her closing the book with a snap makes X6 perk up. Her little face seems earnest and determined when she walks over to him and looks like she wants to say something. X6 doesn’t feel like indulging her and returns to his task.

“Monsieur eighty-eight, I do have to ask.” She pauses, waiting for a response that doesn’t come. “I am aware that you are a synth, very much like myself. But I have heard that your abilities surpass those of any other synth. Is that true?”  
He lazily takes her in through his shades. “I am a Courser. My body and mind are result of generations of humanity’s most gifted scientists. Of course I excel in both my physical and mental capabilities.” It all blew to smithereens, but at least nobody can take that away from him.  
“How very intriguing!” She exclaims. “Please, do tell me more about your amazing capabilities.”  
“Think of anything you can do, I can do it better.” He says with disinterest.  
“That is very astounding!” She gnaws on her lip like she was nervous, or embarrassed, X6 can’t really tell, but he doesn’t miss that faint glimmer in her eye.  
“Oh, monsieur eighty-eight! Please let me try something!” She says and leans forward, her face coming so close to his, he can feel the heat of her blush. “Please don’t be mad.” Her lips kiss his, quick and chaste. The moment only lasts a heartbeat before she stands up with a hm sound, and says, “I think it was so-so.”

With more noise than is dignified for a stealth master, X6 gets up from his chair to meet her on eye-level despite the difference in height. “I don’t think you’ve conducted your experiment fairly. Let me demonstrate…” His last words ghost over his lips before they meet, a moment of perfect softness connecting the two of them.  
“Oh!” Curie clutches her chest and is even redder than before. “That was so much better.” She smiles sweetly. “What a wonderful experience. I do feel especially human when kissing. What do you think, monsieur eighty-eight?”  
He turns to graciously take his seat at the table again, his hands fluidly returning to their previous task. “Perhaps.” He says, “I wouldn’t know.”  
There it is again, that glimmer in her eyes which manages to diminish her genuineness not in the slightest. “I am sure Coursers are perfectly capable of expanding their already impressive capabilities and excel in them too, wouldn’t you agree?”


	2. Deacon x Female Sole Survivor, fear, doubt, and cuddles

Travelling the Commonwealth, nothing about Fixer gives away the fact she didn’t grow up in this world. Road leathers, armor, pistols. But he can see the way she looks at collapsed diners on the road, the way she rifles through junk and books whenever she gets the chance, the way she feels the brittle artefacts of her world turn into dust under her touch.

They’re on a stake ou mission, “You can rest first,” she says, “I’ll keep watch,” as if she had a lifetime of experience in this. The night settles in, mild and quiet for Commonwealth standards, only faint gun shots from time to time in the distance. Deacon doesn’t find any rest, lies still and imagines to be a mummified pharaoh, crumbling, only held together by layers and layers of decaying matter. 

There’s some coughing from by the window, the sound of a lighter and an exhale. She smokes too much, but he’s never gonna tell her. That’s the sort of friend he is.

“I wonder what type of guy you would have been before the war.” Her somber voice travels softly through the air. She seems deep in her thoughts when she taps the ash off her cigarette and turns to him, watching him in a way he usually watches her, with subdued fondness. “I wonder if you’d find a wife, have kids, live an unremarkable life and be content, instead of…” She turns and blows smoke through the window out into the night sky.  
“Who knows.” He says and sits up, his body feeling as if millenia of dust crumbled from him even though he isn’t the relic between the two of them.

“I want you to hold me and tell me reassuring lies like a proper pre-war husband. Can you do that for me?”

He gets up and nicks the cigarette from her fingers, taking a long drag before flicking the butt away. “You smoke too much,” he says and slings his arms around her like she would fade if he didn’t, “think of the children. What would the neighbors say?”


	3. X6-88/Hancock; injured after a fight

Hancock sits on a wooden bench in the corner of the small room, idly blowing smoke puffs out the window. “So,” the raspy voice begins, “when are you going to admit that you need some help? You’re ruining the carpet.”

X6 is on the floor, half-way propped up on the wall, holding his side and trying to patch himself up, blood pooling on the wooden floor where it doesn’t get soaked into a dusty rug. They didn’t perfect him to the point of being immune to pain, but X6 is trained for this. He reaches over to a bottle of Whiskey that slid out of a dead raider’s pocket, it’s all he has to treat the wound. With jittery hands, he unscrews the bottle, his hands leaving sticky marks. Before he can apply any of it, the bottle tumbles to the floor, adding more stains to the carpet. “Dammit,” he mumbles.

“What a waste.” Hancock has turned to him, his scarred face overblown by the bright sunlight behind him, making it impossible to read his expression. X6 hates the soft tone in his voice, hates that the ghoul is here in the first place, hates that he’s seeing him like this.  
Courser or not, he’s not above bad luck. And bad luck it was, nothing more. Anything else would be unforgivable.

X6 manages to stitch the wound the shrapnel left in his soft flesh, knowing the healing powers of his superior body will do the rest. He has nothing to prove, there is no point to it, still, he gets up sliding along the wall, and takes the few steps over to the ghoul.

“Congratulations.” The raspy voice mocks, “you’re standing. You could’ve had that much easier, and with a lot less pain,” he says, patting his pocket where he keeps all his disgusting surface world drugs, and only then X6 realizes how hard he’s wheezing. There is a limit in as far the mind can push the body; it is reached when X6 flops down on the ground, not collapsing, no, but lying down with a harsh thud against the wooden planks.

“You know,” the soft raspy voice begins again, “a man who can’t accept help is the most pathetic thing in the world.”  
“I am not a man.”  
“That isn’t the point, my synth man.”  
“If I am going to die here, so be it.”

Hancock studies his cigarette and blows another golden puff into the sunlight. With smooth lazy motions, he slides off his seat and goes to crouch in front of the Courser. ”When they made you, they must’ve forgotten to give you common sense,” he says and drops a tiny flask of disinfectant, and adds “what a waste.”


	4. Preston x Male Sole Survivor (Domestic, dawn, wholesome)

The early morning hours in Sanctuary Hills tend to be still and quiet these days. Everyone’s asleep. There’s only the faint murmur of the creek nearby, the low breathing of the wind turbine slowly turning on the roof. 

Almost everyone is asleep. Preston is standing in the small kitchen he and Nate furnished back when they moved in together. 

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wanders through the house, and Nate begins to shuffle under the sheets. When the mattress slumps on one side, he opens his eyes and sees Preston sitting there with a cup of steaming goodness.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” He says, gently touching Nate’s shoulder, “Yours is in the kitchen.”

Nate mumbles and begins to move, his hair a mess atop of his lazy head. Preston can feel the warmth emanating from underneath the sheets when Nate sits up, the bedding sliding off his body. The good morning kiss wanders from Preston’s cheek to his lips until soft sleepy eyes look at him and slow determined fingers free the cup from his hand.

“I’d rather steal from yours.” Nate says, looking over the rim of the cup while sipping, waiting for Preston’s soft chuckle that sure enough gives him life every day.

Outside, Sanctuary Hills sets into motion, people fetching water, tending to the garden, the sun now peeking through the window.

“Alright.” Nate swings himself out of bed without spilling a droplet. He takes another sip before he returns the cup to Preston. “Whatchu wanna eat for breakfast?”


	5. Deacon/MacCready — sneaking, snacking, bastards

The target subject is right in front of him, unsuspecting, only an arm’s length away, just another noiseless step, and smoothly, his wrist bends down and Deacon extricates the hostage from MacCready’s pocket. Her name: Cotton Candy Bites, boxed as new.

Slowly, the sweet thief retreats, his thoughts already engulfed in stealing away with the treat, when, carelessly, he shifts the weight on his knee and reaps a creak in response.

“Huh? Deacon what-?” MacCready turns and can only stare in astonishment when Deacon in one fluid motion tears up the box and eats the contents at once. “You bastar- you- you… mean bald man!” He yells as soon as he recovers from the shock of having to witness a cryptid eat his favorite snack.

“Aw…” Deacon drawls with a full mouth. “Mean and bald, is that the best you got?” He gulps down the clumped piece of sugar and shivers at the far too intense taste. “You’re trying to hard, MacCready.”

“What the heck, man. Maybe you’re no trying hard enough, that ever crossed you mind?”

“You wound me. And you’re a real bastard, Mac. One of the good ones,” he says, patting MacCready’s unwilling shoulder before he produces a box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes out of his bag.

“You have snacks on your own?!”

“They’re yours. You know, I’m not that kind of bastard who steals candy from a sweet tooth without having a backup plan.”

Sourly, MacCready yanks the box from Deacon’s hand and checks the contents. “You’re not getting any. So don’t try anything.”

“I hate sweets.”

“You’re a real b- ald man, for sure.”


	6. Deacon/MacCready: shelter, sleepy, discovery

When they finally reach a safehouse, MacCready makes a beeline for the bed and flops down bonelessly.

“Only one bed.” Deacon makes a show of musing about this fact, “there never are two beds. Figures.”

MacCready just groans at this needless droning and loses his hat and rifle to get more comfortable, passing out after a few moments, turning into a softly snoring bundle on the bed.

Hours later, MacCready’s slowly drifting back into consciousness with his limbs entangled into knots, a faint chill creeping in from one side and a cozy warmth welcoming him from the other. Naturally, he leans into that warmth, shifts a little, closer, until he recognizes the source of this coziness.

Deacon’s face is right next to his, relaxed and unguarded. His features looking unfamiliar so close up. No shades. Before MacCready’s half asleep mind can process the situation, Deacon’s eyes open and stare back at him.

“Woah, creepy,” MacCready scoots back in surprise.

“And a beautiful good morning to you too, sweetheart.” A slightly hoarse voice answers.

“What are you doing?” MacCready asks, only now noticing Deacon’s arm loosely slung around him.

“Uh. Sleep? I fancy that sometimes.” Deacon says as MacCready sits up in confusion. “Only one bed, remember?”

“I… don’t.” Looking around, MacCready indeed finds that to be true. “You didn’t do anything weird, did you, old man?”

Deacon grabs his chin as if he was thinking really hard. “You mean besides snoring and drooling in the cushion? Probably not.”

With little grace and much noise, MacCready crawls from the saggy mattress. “Why the heck is there only one bed?”

“You tell me.” Deacon smirks, fishing for his sunglasses. “Wanna swing by a motel next time?”

“Nah.” For some reason, MacCready turns his face away when he’s collecting his gear. “Too expensive.”


	7. Curie & Cait, tranquil, false, annoy

It was always annoying, this self-assured calmness with which Curie would berate her. School her. Cait hated it more than anything.

“Shut up for a minute, can ya.” Cait snaps at her when Curie went further into explaining why squishing irradiated pests with your bare fists was a bad idea. “I know what I’m doing, worry about your own shit.”

The expression on Curie’s was priceless and almost made Cait forget her anger. “But Miss Cait, if you truly are aware of the health risks, I don’t understand why you would endanger yourself like this.”

“It’s just a bug. Relax for once in a while, science girl.” She was about to friendly punch Curie in the shoulder when Cait realizes she has still roach goo on her hand and makes a face at that. “I am gonna wash myself up,” she says turns to walk to the water pump.

“No!” Curie yells, and with a fervent stomp of her foot squishes another bug into a splashing puddle. “I apologize,” Curie says, looking at Cait while being frozen in her pose, “I think I sullied your boots with irradiated cockroach innards. As I have my own, for that matter.”

Bursting laughter, Cait gives Curie a hard pat on the shoulder with her clean hand and says, “I think you shouldn’t splatter around irradiated bug innards like this.”

“I know!” Curie replies truly scandalized, “it is a health hazard after all!”

Cait smirks and drags Curie after her, “wanna join me at the water?”


	8. Danse & Codsworth: scrub, skin, peep

“Mister Danse-” Codsworth can barely begin to talk before a bar of soap hits one of his eye stalks.

“Get away, handy robot,” Danse says, only recognizing the intruder after he has thrown his only weapon. “Can’t you see I am taking a bath?”

“That is exactly the reason for my uncourtly intrusion and cause of my dilemma, Mister Danse.” Codsworth says sounding quite flustered for a british accented household robot.

“Were you spying on me?! I knew machines imitating humans cannot be trusted-” He huffs and further submerges into the tub like an embarrassed youngster.

“Not quite like that.” Codsworth explains apologetically, ignoring the attack on his personhood. “But I have seen you take the curd soap from the shelf when you went to the bath, and I assumed you didn’t know using it would be indeed a bad idea. This type of soap tends to dry up human skin and requires extensive moisturizing after use, and with the way things are, is hard to achieve these days. I thought Mister Danse should know about that.”

Danse looks at him dumbfounded. Wet, naked, being schooled about skin care by an ancient robot. “Acknowledged.” He says in lack of any other words, and adds, “Thank you… Codsworth.”

“Always at your service!” The robot chirps and swirls away.


	9. Deacon keeps a journal

Day 1  
Work is normal. People come and go. Boring.

Day 3  
Spiced things up a bit by hooking up the soda machine in a series connection with the main computers. My request to play “Murder in the Dark” during the short circuits was ignored.

Day 8  
Carrington is playing detective and claims to have evidence against me. Too bad I got watertight alibis for all blackouts. Poor Doctor Watson has once again found his master.

Day 13  
Things are getting tense. Debbie from accounting is onto me, good thing I bribed Bob from marketing to cover for me. Tinker Tom is starting to believe the catacombs are haunted.

Day 27  
I am well past dodging suspicions. This is about pure survival. Maintenance has joined HR under Tinker Tom’s leadership to exorcize every ghost they assume can wander and possess people to make them sabotage the wiring. Carrington and accounting tried to be a voice of reason when in the middle of his defense speech the fuse blew again.

Day 38  
All attempts to fix the wiring were unsuccessful. Tinker Tom and his cult began worshipping the soda dispensers they see as their overlords of electricity and won’t let anybody get near them. Everyday Carrington begs Tom to check the wiring behind the vending machine panels, but Tom insists cracking open a God would be blasphemy.

Day 42  
PAM adapted her prediction models and calculated that blowing herself up would fix the problem. It did. The soda machine burned down along with her, as did any evidence. I am gonna lay low for a few weeks and not return to HQ until things cooled down a bit.


	10. Piper & Preston: flesh, unkempt, important

It’s not like they were the best of friends, they barely knew each other in passing, but as a reporter, Piper had always been part of Preston’s orbit ever since the Minutemen were rising up again.

Despite the respectful distance between them, Preston always had the feeling there was something connecting the two of them. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it until one day Nora came to the Castle, busying herself with hunting down Mirelurks for the communal pantry, in tow, a reporter reluctant about seafood.

It happens when Nora is gone for one of her hunting trips. Piper aimlessly wanders around the fortress before she approaches Preston in a quiet corner.

“I am in a pickle here… and you seem like the type of guy can help me out.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Preston asks quite guarded about what’s to come.

“You know what I mean. We both swing a certain way.” She says, looking at a puzzled face. “We’re both playing for the other side? Betting for the other team?”

“What the heck are you talking about?”  
“We’re both gay, for crying out loud!”  
“Oh. Yeah.”

As it turns out, Piper is planning to propose to Nora. “You know, the old-fashioned way. With going down on my knee and formally asking.” Piper is fiddling on her hat while talking, ruffing and tugging her hair until it’s a mess. “I’ve been thinking about it for months. Will she like it? Will she be reminded of her old life and hate it? What if she never wants to see me again afterwards?”

“I think you’re exaggerating a bit.”  
“Am I?”  
“You have been dating for over a year now.”  
“Do you think she likes me?”  
“Piper.” Preston rolls his eyes. “Just… ask her. I know it’s not the most romantic, but if you’re that worried, you should ask her how she feels about a formal proposal.”

It takes a little more hand holding on every step of the argument until Piper is convinced.  
“You’re right, Preston. I knew I could ask you about this. You’re like the best baby brother one could ask for!”  
“Baby brother? I am the one who helped you.”  
“Yeah, you know, like a really sweet little brother,” she says and in passing gives him a peck on the cheek, “Thank you, Preston. I gotta go now and ask my seafood smelling girlfriend if she wants to be my wife.”


	11. MacCready/Female Sole Survivor: vodka, rooftop, vertibird

It’s a clear night with stars so bright sitting in the deep dark black of the sky. On the rooftop of her house sits Nora, tightly wrapped in a woolen blanket, mapping out that unchanging, altered firmament that seems to her so alien in its familiarity.

She’s not sitting there long before she can hear his interrupted half-curses, then sees him work to climb up the structure.

“Whatcha doing?” MacCready asks slightly out of breath and sits down next to her.

“Bird watching,” she says, a vertibird droning by in the distance. A guilty bottle of vodka emerges from under the blanket.

“Whoa.” MacCready accepts it kindly. “Quite the sleeping potion you have there. I like it.” A sip or two back and forth, they both sit silently for awhile, the chopper circling far away in the sky.

In a playful motion, MacCready points his finger, squeezes his eyes as if he was aiming with his rifle, and makes a pew sound at the flying machine.

Nora chuckles and pokes him in the side through her blanket. “Don’t scare up my birds, Mac.” She smiles and takes another sip.

Leaning in closely, MacCready snatches the bottle directly from her mouth. “I’d never.” He says with eyes locked on hers. “Come back to bed?”

“In a minute.”

Understanding, he nods and gets up to leave.

“On second thought,” she speaks up again, “why don’t you join me for a bit?” With an extended arm, she opens her blanket cocoon.

“Sure.” He smiles. “We can bird watch together.”

“That would be nice,” she says, snuggling up to him, her face deeply buried in the crook of his neck.

“See some birds there?”

“So many,” she says, “so many birds here.”


	12. Curie/Sturges, bed side manner

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Sturges says as Curie pushes him back into the bed with relentless care.

“For your wellbeing, I need you to rest, monsieur Sturges.” Curie insists with a voice as light as a feather and as rigid as a 500 pound anvil. Earlier this day while working on the hack saw, a metal piece splintered and grazed Sturges forearm much deeper than he cares to admit.

“Would you mind to have a game then?” He says pointing with his good arm at a shelf in the corner of his ramshackle room that doubles as his workshop.

“Oh, chess! I am delighted.” Curie gets up to take the case, unfolding into a chessboard. Inside, the gaming pieces are artfully carved from differently toned wood. “Did you make all these yourself?” She asks while tracing the details on the small figurines with her finger.

“You know, I like to keep busy in my spare time. Hand me that one, will ya,” he points at the white knight, but before he has the figurine fully in his hand, it slips and falls to the concrete floor.

“Oh no.” Curie yelps softly as she bends down to collect the pieces. “It broke in half, I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine, Curie.” Sturges shakes his head good-naturedly, “it’s a clear breach. Nothing a little bit of glue can’t fix.”

“Are you sure? I should have been more careful.”

“Nothing to worry about,” he chuckles looking at Curie’s overly concerned expression. “I know a thing or two about fixing things.”

“Why are you laughing then, monsieur Sturges?”

“Because you know a thing or two about fixing people. More than that. And I should’ve listened to you when you told me to rest.”

“I fully agree.” She says with the most charming smile on her cheeks. “Please fix it once you feel better so we can play together, oui?”


	13. Preston/Danse: meeting, easy, agreement

During the past few days, Preston has been testing the waters for a cooperation between Goodneighbor and the Minutemen, but Hancock doesn’t trust so easily. At least Preston has been granted the permission to recruit people within the city’s walls, however equally blessed with lacking success. The townsfolk dislike the Minutemen. Preston’s hat and coat that usually bestow him welcoming faces and thankful handshakes (sometimes filled with caps), now earn him impassive looks and rude shouts at best.

How delighted is he then when he runs into the former Paladin of all people- probably the only person who looks even more lost in a place like this.

“Finally,” Danse grumbles, “a trustworthy face. What are you doing in this wanton place, Garvey?”

“Believe it or not, I’m checking if there’s any potential for recruitment.”

Danse furrows his brows and stiffly looks around the street. “You must be desperate.”

“It’s not that bad, I mean Goodneighbor. It’s just that crime is really high and the people can be quite rough around the edges-- yeah I guess it is a little bit bad.” Preston laughs an easy laugh. “You don’t wanna join by any chance?”

Danse’s guarded features soften for an amused huff, and Preston invites him to a drink to present his recruitment pitch, but it is obvious the Paladin is still tense.

“Not here, if you don’t like it.” Preston points at the tunnel leading down to the Third Rail. “I have a room at the Rexford, we can drink there without any sketchy characters. Well, except for me.” Preston good naturedly winks at the Paladin who in turn can’t help but laugh warmly at the offer. 

“Agreed.” The Paladin says with a smile, “let’s find out how sketchy of a character you are, Preston Garvey of the Minutemen.”


	14. Longfellow/Daisy being S/O

It’s still a new thing, even after two years. They passed by as swiftly as a fish jumping out the water. Compared to the long lonely decades in Longfellow’s life, those last two years are still a novelty.

He can’t leave the Island, his island. Despite all its dangers and sorrows, it still is his home. But on some days, the fog seems thicker and his heart feels heavier than usual. That’s when he knows it is time again. He packs his bag, only a few things, and starts up the boat, headed for his safe haven away from Far Harbor.

For two years, every few months he leaves for a couple weeks. He loves the Island, but his love is living on the Mainland. She’s not really a mainlander, he tells himself, she’s pre-war and a ghoul to boot. She’s something special. 

He loves her love for books and fixing things, he loves her interest in both new things and old things.

Longfellow counts himself amongst the latter, even though she easily has 200 years on him.

“Look at that old thing, it’s falling apart”, he says fixing a fishing rod at the table near her shop counter.

“Of course it is. I built that myself 80 years ago when you were still crapping in your little diapers, my sweetheart.” With her unique charm, his Daisy is idly teasing him while cleaning up the counter top.

He laughs a throaty laughter. “I wasn't even a distant idea on the horizon back then, but I have to thank you for your belief I would still be in great shape at such an age.” He turns to her and sees her black eyes smile at him. “C'mere, let me give you a kiss.”

With a calloused but gentle hand, he reaches up and guides her face down to his for a peck on her scarred cheek. He loves the way she turns meek whenever he does that. “You don’t look a day over 220.”

She laughs the same raspy laugh she always does at his shenanigans. “Why don’t you go ahead prepare those fish you caught and I close up the shop.”

“Aye cap’n, sounds like a splendid idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> shoot me your own prompts at my tumblr (same name), no rules or restrictions (give me two people and three words, that works fine), I do what I want, no guarantees


End file.
